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Chapter 1
I believe,the letter announced, in old-fashioned graceful cursive,the enclosed properly belongs to you.
Burne looked at the oversized envelope packet he’d just undone, the already-open birthday card that’d slid out onto his desk, the extra sheets of heavy expensive paper. The card had pink glitter and unicorn stickers.
When he nudged it open with a pencil, he recognized his niece’s handwriting in the scrawl ofHappy Birthday, Uncle Burne!along with his brother’s marginally neater,Happy Birthday from all of us—hope you’re having fun with the sea grass!
Sunshine, Pacific Ocean pale and sea-damp, skittered across his desk. His office out here on the island was cluttered, three-month temporary, and not exactly makeshift. Santa Rosita did have a small scientific outpost, mostly inhabited by wayward studiers of foxes or tide pools or island chicory or Paleolithic stones; researchers and graduate students came and went with the breezes and tides and grant money. Burne himself had six weeks left to gather data about sea grass, eel grass, delicate ecosystems unique to these isolated islands.
On clear days he could see the lurking mainland of California across deep blue water, though today wore haze like a fading ghost, a suggestion rather than a presence. Inside, his desk held scribbled notes, measurements, the laptop with his root-system growth projections. And now, distressingly, glitter. And stickers.
The mail boat had been by this morning. His birthday had in fact been two weeks ago; his brother had called that day, because there wasn’t much of a time difference between the islands and Arizona. Sean had asked cheerfully whether Burne had got their card, and had shrugged and said, “Well, the mail’s pretty slow out at the end of nowhere, right?” when Burne had said he hadn’t. The slowness was true, though not as true as Sean liked to joke.
He looked back at the letter that was definitelynotin his family’s handwriting. A surprise, a mystery. The larger envelope had his address and building number, elegantly written:Professor Burne Cameron, 3 Fox Path, Rosita Bay, Santa Rosita Island.
The return address was even more of a puzzle. He tapped the pencil against the envelope; went back to the note.
I’m terribly sorry about opening your card. It was delivered to my house by mistake, and that so rarely happens—I’d picked it up and opened it before I realized. I suspect the unicorn stickers of nefarious foul play—attaching your card to another piece of mail.
Burne laughed out loud, briefly; went to run a hand through his hair, noticed glitter, sighed, tried to brush it off against his jeans, resigned himself to wearing glitter forever. At least it wasn’t in his beard.
I hope this arrives safely—I’d meant to send it a bit sooner, but I had to go down into town for that, and I don’t do that very often.
Well, that explained something about the address, though not everything. Burne looked back at the graceful blue ink. Some people used stickers, pre-printed labels, decorations of cats or snowflakes or flowers. This envelope said simply,Devon Lilian, The Rose House, Summervale.
Also California, he thought. Wasn’t Summervale one of those tiny expensive resort towns along the central coast? Clifftop houses, ocean views, wineries, and so on? But to not even have a house number…a name, instead…outside of town, perhaps up on one of those cliffs…
Devon went on,I admit I was intrigued by the address on the card—out on the islands?—so I confess to having looked up your name, if you were wondering how I knew you were a professor.Burne hadn’t been—somehow that discrepancy hadn’t registered, but of course Sean and Jen and Candace hadn’t put the titles, professor and PhD and all that, on their card—but now he belatedly eyed the handwriting with some suspicion.
Only some. Of course his faculty profile at Southern Coastal University was public; Devon Lilian had probably found it as the first search result, and had honestly admitted to looking, so that was all right. A little weird. But flattering, in a way.
As a further apology, if I might presume, may I offer you a happy birthday? And a gift to mark the occasion? They’re very small and I did them rather fast, but I thought you might like a present. Again, I hope this all arrives safely.
The person had signed the letter, somewhat formally,Best wishes, Devon.
Burne picked up the other two flat sheets that’d slid onto his desk; they were busy being thick and high-quality and artistic. He looked at the first one; his breath caught.
A rocky island shore, in black ink and creamy paper, billowed into joyous detailed life. Lacy ruffles of foam on the water. Tall sea grass rustling in wind he could all but feel. A tumble of pebbles, shining. A flirtation of outgoing tide. Only a few slim curving brushstrokes, to make a whole scene practically leap off the page.
Burne stared at it,feltit in his bones, and turned to the other one.
This sketch was similar but more playful. The same beach, clearly. The same rocks and pebbles and horizon. But a spiral of sea birds danced in the air; a scuttle of tiny crabs ran down the beach; and an outline of a figure, with Burne’s tied-up shaggy hair and the amount of beard he’d had in his last faculty photo, was looking intently into a tide pool, clutching a notebook. The miniscule note in the notebook, when he grabbed a real-life magnifying glass to read it, said,Aquatic glitter unicorns?!
This time Burne really did burst out laughing. Perfect, it was perfect; it was himself and his work and the wind in his hair, and somehow Devon Lilian, a mystery person, had looked at a birthday card and his university page, and had sent him a birthday present that put Burne’s heart on a sheet of paper, the loves of his family and his research, drawn into glowing life.
A knock bounced off his open door; the permanently harried face of Mike Sun, doctoral candidate and explorer of lichen biodiversity, inquired, “Doctor Cameron?”
“Everything’s fine,” Burne reassured him, “just birthday presents. How’s next year’s grant application?”
“Not good yet. Um…it was your birthday?” Mike had obviously seen the glitter.
“A couple weeks ago. Don’t worry about it. How’s the lichen?”
“Slow.” Mike’s gaze traveled to the radiant magic spell in Burne’s hand. “Did someone send you…art?”
“It’s from a friend,” Burne said, because it was. Even if they’d only met in paper and ink, it was. “I should thank them. I need a flower.”
“Do you…want me to go pick flowers?”
